


a reaping sickle through grain

by betony



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: The queen of Attolia is a fiend from the underworld. There is no denying that.





	a reaping sickle through grain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scytale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scytale/gifts).



The queen of Attolia is a fiend from the underworld. There is no denying that: the hordes she has cut down, the humans she’s sucked free of life, and the soulless husks she’s left behind speak for themselves.

You would not think it to look at her, pale skin, pretty face and all. You might even think she was sorry for what she did, or pity her for the dark smudges beneath her eyes. It’s a surefire way to end up dead, or worse. Eddis knows that, having offered refuge to those fleeing her reign--and so does her Thief.

Unfortunately that does him little good now, chained in her dungeons, surrounded by her retainers. She knows it, too; she smiles now, showing off those perfect teeth. ”Then there’s nothing to prevent you from remaining in Attolia to be _my_ thief.”

As ever, Eugenides’ first impulse is a clever remark. There aren’t many who can boast of having bested the queen of Attolia, and besides, he is desperate to do anything to calm the gallop of his heart in her presence, born of panic and anger and a thousand other emotions he doesn’t care to name.  

But--”Your tongue will be the death of you, boy,” his father has grunted over breakfast one too many times, and today is not the day Eugenides wants to prove him right. He pastes a smile on his face, subject and servile, and says: “As my Queen wishes.”

(Her lips burn on his right wrist, and for one mad moment he swears he would have rather lost the hand entirely than allow it to be used in her service.)

* * *

“I hope you know what’s you’re doing,” Relius mutters in an urgent undertone as she leaves the prisons, and Attolia pauses to smile at him. He was, after all, the first thrall she’d ensnared herself rather than inherited from her sire, and, whether by intention or inexperience, he’d been left with more in the way of wit than any of the others. She is fond of him, in the way a goldsmith might be of a fine necklace, or a woman the cloth she’s woven at her loom, and so her voice is gentle as ever when she replies.

“I always do.”

He does not dare ask again.

* * *

Days pass before she calls for her Thief, leaving Eugenides little to do but wait in his cell, stare at the delicate puncture marks she’s left behind on his wrist, and wonder if she kept her promise to free the Magus and Sophos. He hopes so. He doesn’t care to walk through the grave-silent throne room, and find their empty eyes staring back at him with the rest.

Inactivity makes him bad-tempered, and his first words when brought before her presence are a petulant: “You forgot about me!”

The queen laughs into the silence surrounding her, and Eugenides flushes, feeling a child and a fool. Perhaps, if she has nothing for him to steal, he might still serve her in the capacity of jester.

That isn’t necessary, for she looks down at him from her throne. “I find myself in need of water from the river Aracthus. Surely my Thief might procure some for me?”

There are many responses he might make, Eugenides knows, and none of them should be to remind her that he had just returned from that very location, crossing her borders unannounced and intending to smuggle her own treasures out from under her nose.

“But I was _just there_!”

This time his sulkiness fails to amuse her; her voice is sharp. “I am not,” she reminds him, “in the habit of asking twice.”

The blood at his wrist burns anew at her words, and Eugenides sighs. He knows, all too well, how this works; he has sat with Galen too many evenings trying to save those from Attolia afflicted by the Queen’s bite, and come up helpless far too often.

“It’s days’ ride away,” he points out. “I won’t survive so many, away from you.”

The queen rises. She’s smiling again, a dimple almost apparent in one white cheek, and Eugenides swallows. She’s never been so close to him; she smells of oranges, and hair oil, and fresh blood. The hem of her gown begins to collapse into a thousand foul furry shapes, circling about them both.

“You forget,” the queen says, as the throne room disappears in a crowd of bats, “that I have my ways.”

* * *

Attolia hates to travel.

The sensation of her body dividing into a thousand smaller creatures, the stench of sorcery that effects a translocation, the headache one gets afterwards, and the burden of having to drag another body along--they are all equally tiresome. Perhaps she might enjoy it more were she more proficient, but she lacked natural talent and her sire had never had the patience to teach her. Certainly she’d never thought to learn, in her past life; then, incautiously, she’d imagined herself free from her father’s notice, safe in the shadows.

How wrong she’d been.

There are not many ways to destroy the undead, but the king of Eddis had known at least one of them; with the last of his life-blood, he’d cast a spell to ensure that his death would mean the king of Attolia’s end. Then her sire remembered her, and recalled her to court. Attolia had known, even then, what it would mean for her, and had brewed a tincture of coleus leaf as a last defense. Not that it had made any difference at all, in the end; a girl half-dead is, if anything, even easier to turn than one in possession of all her strength.

Now (and for all eternity, she expects) the bitterness of the poison she’d swallowed lingers on her lips, just as acrid as in the instant her life ended.

* * *

 When they emerge, they are in what appears to be in the middle of nowhere. “It’s almost dawn,” the queen says by way of explanation, and although everything Eugenides has heard suggests she ought to have them the rest of the way to the Arachtus in the blink of an eye, he follows her to the shelter of the trees anyway.

The queen of Attolia sleeps like a child, one arm pillowing her head. Eugenides, though not unaccustomed to a nocturnal lifestyle, finds slumber eludes him; instead, he paces back and forth, peering at her still face. _It would be easy,_ he thinks, leaning close, _so easy_ \--

Not easy enough. He rocks back on his heels, just in time for the queen to drawl: “If you mean to kill me, you might be quicker about it.”

Eugenides, beloved of the gods, does not lose his balance, but it is a near thing.

“I have survived,” she continues, “eight hundred enchantments, every damned beast of a Mede who transforms with the moon and makes their way to the Peninsula, and my own people. In comparison, a boy is no threat at all.”

“You don’t know that,” Eugenides says before he can stop himself, and the queen scoffs before going back to sleep. He stays awake, though, stares ahead at nothing in particular, and tries not to think of the weariness in the queen’s voice when she listed her enemies.

When dusk falls, and leathery wings close around him once more as they set out again, their cries sound desperate rather than damned to his ears.

* * *

Her father’s thralls had not expected him to have a successor.

Over the years, they had grown accustomed to their excesses; his death should have set them free, and left them answerable to no one when it came to hunting and harvesting their prey. They would have hated anyone who inherited the blood claim, but they hated Attolia most of all. Any softness on her part would have meant that they would destroy her. Anything less than ruthlessness on her part would have meant that they would kill thousands.

She thinks, sometimes, of the queen of Eddis, safe in her mountains, with warm hands about her and a beating heart still, and try as she might, Attolia cannot help but hate her. Envy, it seems, is the last human emotion left to her; one day soon, that too will be gone, and then she really will be lost.

* * *

On the banks of the Aracthus, Eugenides’ first thought is to look down for his reflection. It is still there, faithful as ever, but there is no woman reflected there beside him. The queen watches the waves, face expressionless, and for the first time it occurs to him that she must have no idea how beautiful she really is. Even if a man should look at her with awe and admiration in his eyes, she would expect it to be nothing more than fear.

His thoughts are interrupted when the queen turns to Eugenides expectantly. He bends to collect some of the water there--wincing a little at the thought of further offending the river-god--and offers it to the queen, but she only shakes her head.

“That’s not why I’ve brought you here,” she corrects in her lovely clear voice. “Or have I mistaken you, child of Eddis?”

She has not. Eugenides retrieves the silver Galen had armed him with before he’d left home: enough to protect against a legion of bites. To his surprise, the queen smiles.

“This is the Aracthus, is it not?” she asks. “Holiest of waters within my realm?” When Eugenides nods, she says: “My thralls and retainers will perish with me; there’s no one to whom I have entrusted my bloodline, and you can defend yourself against me. So make sure I drink, conscious or unconscious. I doubt I would have the courage to do so alone, when it came time.”

The queen of Attolia is many things, but she is no coward. She has no need of him to force her hand when she stoops beside the river, and cups the water in her hands with the barest wince. He is there, Eugenides thinks wryly, only to bear witness to her death, and to bring back the news that the scourge of Attolia had ended.

She drinks. She waits. She spits out the water in by far the most unladylike gesture he’s ever seen from her.

“It’s _useless_!” she hisses, hunching over. “Nothing but plain water: useless to me!”

Eugenides says nothing, not even when she glares up at him.

“And so are you,” she snaps. “Go.”

He goes.

* * *

When she hears later, that the Thief of Eddis had spirited away Hamiathes’ Gift under her nose, Attolia wants to laugh. A relic bestowed with enough magic to destroy her, a way to bring about her release, when she’d as good as begged him for it, and the Thief had kept it from her. Now, when it might have put an end to Eddis’ greatest enemy, it simmers in a volcano.

They called Attolia cruel, and he is a thousand times more so.

She does not expect him to see him so soon, or ever again, but he steals inside her megaron to find her when she is alone. Come, she imagines, to contemplate his triumph. She will not let him have this last victory; she cannot. She holds her head high.

He kneels before her. “I’m here,” he says, “to fulfill my service to you.”

She raises an eyebrow, and he smiles steadily. She’s never known anyone to do so in the face of her displeasure. She finds she likes it.

“Am I to imagine you’re still in my thrall?” she asks dryly, but the Thief shakes his head.

“I’m safely in possession of all my wits,” he says, and adds, “and a fair number of curses on the part of my cousin when she heard where I intended to go.”

Little wonder, that; Eddis had ever been a careful guardian.

“And how,” Attolia wants to know, “will you fulfill the terms of your service? Sprinkle garlic in my breakfast? Spear me through the chest when I least expect it?” Her voice shakes; she hadn’t known she could feel hope after all this time.

Eugenides raises his right arm, offering it to her once more. “By ensuring,” he replies quietly, “that you need never again be alone.”

Attolia reaches for him, tempted as she's never been before, but first she warns: "You'll find yourself twisted into a monster, if you lack the strength to bear what comes next."

"I won't." His voice is steady.

"You'll long for them, your mountains and friends and cousins. Don't think you can have us both."

"I won't."

"You'll think better of it, once it's too late. You'll wake up and hate yourself for what you've chosen, and me for what I've done."

"I won't." His eyes find hers. "Never you. Not even when I tried my best to."

She bends at last. This time, her lips on his wrist are gentle. 

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Scytale, I hope you enjoy this! I'm unfortunately not familiar with Vampire: the Masquerade, but I tried to use a combination of popular vampire tropes and your prompts to come up with something I think you would like!  
> Naturally, the second and third sentences of the third paragraph are more or less taken verbatim on _The Thief_ (p. 233, HarperCollins 2006). There are other quotes and references, but that seemed to me the most blatant.  
> The title is from _The King of Attolia_.


End file.
